


[Story & Fanart] Once Upon a Time

by fantom_ftnoise



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hansel and Gretel Fusion, Banter, Burns, Claustrophobia, Dessert & Sweets, Digital Art, Frottage, H/D Food Fair 2018, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Forbidden Forest, Horror, Humor, Implied Cannibalism, Implied/Referenced Racism, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Injuries, POV Draco Malfoy, Person of Color Harry Potter, Referenced Child Neglect, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-07-11 01:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15961616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantom_ftnoise/pseuds/fantom_ftnoise
Summary: This is the story of Hansel & Gretel - er, that is, Harry & Draco.





	[Story & Fanart] Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[8](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1E_uQJlIb5C6nLnMg8VrUUnrKtyx16is1FLbyvoxLEik/edit).
> 
> Major props and thanks to the prompter for a genius prompt that I hope I haven't mangled in my fun; to alpha-reader extraordinaire, Estrella ([hogwartsfirebolt](https://hogwartsfirebolt.tumblr.com/)), for hyping me up, calming me down, and providing a keen eye for improvement; to the most incredible beta, Rose ([musingsofaretiredunicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musingsofaretiredunicorn/pseuds/musingsofaretiredunicorn)), for making sure this is readable. A huge helping of gratitude to the food fair organizers! I'm only just beginning to understand how much work, strategy, and communication goes into putting on a fest like this and I am floored that people do it for free. And finally thanks to you, reader, for taking the time to _read the tags carefully_ and for deciding that you're still up for the ride.

 

 

_Once upon a time, two young men were very much in hate. As heirs to powerful bloodlines that had opposed one another for centuries, the young warlocks were happy to continue the tradition. One choice—a handshake, denied—and a rivalry was born._

 

_A bloody war befell their kingdom and these mortal enemies faced years of carnage on both sides of the fight. Children perished alongside their parents, brothers were torn apart, families destroyed. The Malfoy heir used dark magic to protect his friends, his mother, his own life. The choices he was offered were a farce: take the Dark Mark and perform unspeakable horrors, or allow himself and his family to perish alongside the opposition._

 

_But one day, Draco Lucius Malfoy was offered a true choice:_

 

_"I can't—I can't be sure," he said.  "I don't know."_

 

_And the course of the war was changed._

 

_The Potter heir was also offered a choice: to die, or to watch the world burn. Harry James Potter, the last of his line, chose to die. And true to the theme of this story, he was offered a second chance. He ended the bloodshed and won the war. Shocking everyone, he chose to speak for the Malfoy family. Draco and Narcissa Malfoy were spared from prison, and Draco was offered his own second chance. Come September, our heroes found themselves on even ground where it all began: Hogwarts._

 

_One choice—a handshake, accepted—and a friendship was born._

 

 

* * *

 

They fight. They always fight. Fighting is in their blood; it’s the fire that gets them out of bed and into the Great Hall. It fuels their appetites when grief and trauma would have food turn to ash in their mouths.

 

"Nice hair, Potter! Do you even own a comb? Pass the sausages, Pansy…"

 

"Nice face, Malfoy—do you want to keep it that way? …Did you seriously take the last piece of toast, Neville? Bloody well died for your sins, mate…"

 

"Happy to fix your bird's nest, just say the word!"

 

"Happy to rearrange your teeth, just keep talking!"

 

Gryffindor and Slytherin tables are on opposite sides of the Hall, but that doesn't keep them from their morning round of taunts. Draco hardly knows what he's saying sometimes, the cutting words are automatic. He only knows that he never feels properly hungry until he’s screaming across the sea of students at Saint Potter, the God of Gryffindor. And then he wants a heaping plate of greasy sausages.

 

In classes, their bickering turns subtle. Draco is fond of using parchment—he fancies himself quite the artist—while Potter prefers more plebeian methods, like Summoning his potions stool out from under him just before he sits down. Draco's crude drawing of a plate of bangers ravaging Potter's sandwich is answered with an upturned pot of semi-sentient dirt in the greenhouse. Draco feels that he came out on top of that one when he catches the way Potter—perfect, princely Potter—stares unblinkingly as the dirt molests Draco's nipples under his white, sweat-soaked shirt.

 

"I'll draw this one for you next to keep you warm at night," he whispers with a wink, resisting the urge to claw his own nipples off. Potter looks away, swallowing, and Draco smirks. Victory is worth a dirt-stained shirt, but he could do without the tightness in his trousers.

 

He retrieves another pot of Dirty Dirt and Potter passes him the good trowel. They set to work in comfortable silence.

 

* * *

 

The Eighth Years share a common room on the fourth floor. Potter and the Weasel have the dorm across from Draco and Blaise. Not everyone is quite so lucky with their pairings; Pansy is putting on a good show of stoicism, but Draco can see she is positively terrified of Granger (for good reason).

 

When the nightmares send him running from his bed, it's fifty-fifty odds that Potter will join him in the common room. There's something surreal about the castle in the dead of night. Years past, he spent countless hours under the glass windows of the Slytherin common room, watching the merfolk and dreaming of a simpler life. This isn’t like that. There's no soothing, fluttering green-blue light of the lake. Sometimes there's a fire, if Draco remembers to bring his wand. Other times, it's just Draco, the cold stone floor, the cold stone walls, and the windows looking out into a black sky. No merfolk passing by to remind him that nothing matters, that life carries on even while the world burns. Just him and an endless void of possibility. Of expectation. Of duty.

 

And then Potter walks in, sometimes, and he lights the fire over the hearth and in his heart. He sits close while the fire warms the room. He speaks to fill the silence.

 

"How's your mum?"

 

"Alive, and yours?"

 

They inevitably fight, but it's no longer the same cold battle. There's life in their fight. The windows reflect the flames and Draco can't see that horrible void anymore.

 

Potter can warm any room.

 

* * *

 

Pansy is convinced that Potter has a saving-people thing, and she claims that theory is straight from Granger's horse mouth. She says that's why Potter always pairs himself up with Draco at every opportunity. Draco thinks Pansy should shut her gibbering gob and let them work in peace—or rather, in not-peace.

 

He doesn't bother asking why or how mankind first discovered fire; he’s simply grateful for the heat.

 

Care of Magical Creatures is a waste of time as long as a biased half-breed is the professor, in Draco's opinion. He's not particularly attached to this opinion, but he will defend it to the death against Potter's barrage of spluttering rage. The fight distracts him from the blustering December weather as they scout the forest in search of Hagrid's herd of thestrals. When the class finally comes upon the demonic beasts, Draco hangs back.

 

At the edge of the herd, he suddenly regrets riling Potter's temper. He dreads the moment Potter goes for the low blow, the moment he brings up the fact that it's Draco's fault all the Eighth Years can see the creatures. The moment the fire burns him.

 

But it doesn't come, of course, because Potter's too good for that. He lingers on the edge of the clearing, peering at Draco in a strange, indecipherable way as the half-giant prattles on about thestral maternity. Draco isn't sure he can stomach a double-period of this—another ninety minutes of Hagrid's rambling and Potter's staring and the truth of the thestrals screaming silently at him—it's all too much, too heavy, too empty and cold and unending—

 

Potter clasps his hand—Draco could swear there's a puff of steam in the frigid air—and takes him away from it all. Perhaps it's just his saving-people thing, but Draco is grateful all the same.

 

 

They're quiet as they steal away from the others. Potter leads him to a path, down the path, then away from the path. Draco grumbles something about something—he's not sure what he says—and Potter grumbles back—he's not sure what he hears. Their snappy words and crunchy footsteps fill the crushing silence of the Forbidden Forest as they forge a new path far from the thestrals.

 

"I presume you'll catch up on the half-breed's lesson in private, then? You'll have to share your notes. I don't fancy failing my exams for a spontaneous jaunt through the woods."

 

"Oh, suddenly Hagrid's lessons are worth something to you?"

 

"Any port in a storm, Potter. And you've just sent us out to sea."

 

"We're getting hands-on experience, how's that for exam prep?"

 

"Only a Gryffindor would think a stroll through the Forbidden Forest is a sensible alternative to class."

 

"Hands-on experience, Draco. Unless you'd rather not get dirty?" Potter smirks over his shoulder while he navigates a massive log blocking their path. Perched up on the frozen moss on top of the log, straddling the wood obscenely, Potter's arse is divine. Then he swings his other leg over and drops to the far side, leaving Draco to scramble after him.

 

"You're one to talk about not getting dirty," Draco protests. "Am I to understand that our precious savior is advocat—"

 

They crest a small hill and Potter clamps a hot palm over his mouth. Draco can almost taste the salt of his skin through his chapped lips and he has to reign in his tongue before it darts out to get a proper nibble.

 

"Sh-shh-shhhh…" Potter's voice is soft and urgent. Draco throws his hand off, glaring hotly, but Potter doesn't spare him a glance. He gestures around a copse of trees and Draco goes rigid.

 

Centaurs.

 

Only a spectacular idiot would approach centaurs. They're not younglings anymore and Firenze—a traitor to his own kind—isn't likely to come to their rescue if they're caught. Draco follows Potter's lead and they creep away through the undergrowth.

 

"Careful there," Potter whispers.

 

Draco doesn't speak, but he steadies the moron when he slips on a frozen rock.

  
"Watch yourself," Potter has the gall to say a moment later.

 

Draco chances a peek over his shoulder at the dozen or so centaurs in the distance. The centaurs seem to stare right back, but surely they've not been spotted… He lends a guiding hand to Potter as they slink under a thatch of branches, finally losing sight of the herd. When they come out the other side, Draco shudders in passing horror and Potter laughs at him. Draco bristles.

 

The match is lit and the kindling catches. Before long, they have a roaring fire:

 

"You think you've changed, but you're just as racist as ever!"

 

"Racist?! I have _never_ made a judgement based on skin—except Marietta Edgecomb, that bint hasn't washed her face since they Vanished the afterbirth."

 

"Against half-breeds, creatures—you know what I mean!" Potter roars, stopping in his tracks to level a proper glare at Draco. "It's the same thing!"

 

"Oh, is it?" Draco scoffs. "I missed the part in the text where it says that personality and instincts are based on skin color just the same as actual breeding. It literally comes down to genetics, Potter—"

 

"See, that's something a racist says!"

 

"When a racist cops a valid argument, it doesn't nullify the validity of the original fact!"

 

"You're just using big words to sound right, you pretentious—"

 

"You're throwing me in with racist Muggles as if I'm to blame for how you and Granger are treated in that uncivilized world!"

 

"That's _not_ what I'm saying, if you'd just— _argh!_ I'm saying you're making snap judgments based on appearance—"

 

"Species isn't just appearance, you blithering idiot, it's everything! What you eat, who you mate, where you live. You don't see any wizard colonies in these woods, do you? Because it's not where we belong, we're diff—"

 

"Racists spout the same dragonshit, it's all bollocks! Hagrid's not any more dangerous than I am, but all that people like you ever see is a dangerous half-breed or a brown man that's up to no good—just because we look a certain way!"

 

"Not the best argument, seeing as we all saw the damage you and Hagrid are capable of."

 

With great effort, Potter lowers his voice. He's visibly trembling, and not from the cold. It's been at least a month since Draco has gotten him this worked up. Maybe he should let it go. They were having a perfectly nice midday stroll before the damn centaurs set them off.

 

" _Some_ stereotypes exist for a reason, _fine_ ," Potter growls through gritted teeth. "But when you judge someone, a whole group, before you know them—that's what starts wars."

 

"Like jeering at a first year for being sorted Slytherin?" he shot back. Potter has the grace to flinch at the Weasley twins' less-than-heroic actions.

 

"Yes," he says with a stiff nod. "Exactly like that." Draco opens his mouth to carry himself to victory but Potter interrupts. "I judged Slytherins, too," he blurts out. "Before I was sorted, I heard Voldemort—" Draco rears back on reflex "—came from Slytherin, and then I saw you sorted there so I decided to have nothing to do with it. I judged the whole lot."

 

"You'd have me believe the Sorting Hat would've left the Boy-Who-Lived to fend for himself? Among the children of Death Eaters? Among actual _marked_ —" his voice cuts off in a strangled croak. Steady eyes meet his.

 

"Yes, exactly. It said I'd do well in Slytherin. But it let me choose."

 

"And you chose the lion's den?" Only someone who takes a casual stroll through the Forbidden Forest would volunteer for McGonagall's house.

 

"I asked for anything but Slytherin, so the Hat sent me to other side of the Great Hall."

 

His voice carries a note of finality and Draco falls silent. They stop bellowing the fire and it begins to peter out. They move on, warm and notably less prickly than before. Potter drifts from the path again. It's been at least an hour since they left, perhaps they should turn back—

 

Potter spots something off to the side and diverts their journey yet again, like an easily distracted niffler. He navigates an intricate root system and Draco follows, his hand catching on—on—sticky silk? Stumbling over the last of the gnarled roots, he straightens his robes and finds himself standing at Potter's side on the edge of an acromantula nest.

 

It's abandoned. Frost covers every nook and cranny of the surrounding trees and roots, lending an air of death to what was once teeming with bustling, scuttling life. The ground is frozen over. Icicles are forming on the branches and Draco idly wonders if that's how the Malfoy line will expire—by an icicle dropping on the head of its young heir. How droll.

 

"I died here."

 

All the fight is sucked out of him and their fire turns to smoldering embers. No longer blazing but still hot and lethal, full of coy potential.

 

Potter peers around the frosty lair as if in a trance. Then, to Draco's horror and awe, he drops to the ground, lying flat on his back. He thinks he hears him murmur, _Right here_ , but he can't be sure. He can't bring himself to ask. Draco follows the angle of his body to peer across the nest. He can nearly see the shadow of the Dark Lord, even now. He can nearly hear the roar of the Killing Curse, can nearly watch it sinking into Potter's firm chest, can nearly witness his Mum's unwavering courage as she lies to a mad man's face.

 

Potter is watching the sky through the naked tree limbs overhead. Draco drops down beside him, crossing his legs and arranging his cloak elegantly. He doesn't lie back. He doesn't want to see that damn void again, the blinding sheet of blue on a sunny afternoon. He stares hard at the spot where the Dark Lord must have been. He imagines what it must be like to stand on the precipice between life and death, the promise of the sun and the finality of the cold ground beneath his own divine arse…

 

"I'm feeling much too philosophical for my liking, Potter," he grumbles. "Like a bloody frostbitten Ravenclaw." Potter snorts and sits up, leaning one of his broad, bony shoulders against Draco. Draco feels sinfully warm.

 

"What d'you say we find some herbs and feed our inner Hufflepuffs?"

 

"Are you hooked now? One too many lemon drops?"

 

They help each other up. They cross the clearing. The embers carry on smoldering.

 

Two hours later, class has long since ended and Draco is losing faith in Potter's sense of direction.

 

"I've been in this forest a thousand times," the shivering idiot claims through chattering teeth. "I know how to get out."

 

"You only know how to die or nearly die."

 

"Cast another warming charm, will you?"

 

"Give up the Point Me spell and you can do your own bloody warming charms," Draco suggests, casting the charm anyway.

 

"It'll start working when we get closer to the outer treeline—"

 

"Directional spells won't work _anywhere_ this deep in the forest," Draco snaps. The sun is setting and it's so cold, he's not even feeling up for another squabble. His fingers are painfully stiff and he curses himself for forgoing mittens. "Ask Granger for a refresher on magical interference if you're really so thick as to—"

 

Potter clamps his hot, meaty palm over Draco's mouth again and it takes all his willpower not to bite him. He shoves him off, scowling, but Potter's eyes have gone bright and he seems not to notice. He nods dumbly over Draco's shoulder, and Draco turns to look.

 

A unicorn and her foal are drinking from a brook, not even a quarter length of a Quidditch pitch away from them. Draco's fingers surge with renewed feeling while his legs go inexplicably numb. The mother and foal are _exquisite_. Her silver mane seems to glow brighter than any moon, and her stunning pale-golden hide is a study in radiance. The foal sports a wild tuft of a mane—as wild as Potter's, really—that twinkles like starlight.

 

"First year, remember?" Potter breathes in plain veneration. "That's what she should've had."

 

"What?"

 

"The unicorn."

 

"The—the one we saw before?" It feels…forbidden, to talk about the slaughtered unicorn he glimpsed on his trek through the forest with Potter all those years ago. In the presence of two living unicorns, no less. It feels as taboo as drinking the blood.

 

"This is what he took," Potter whispers. Draco's not sure he's even speaking to him anymore. He looks bewitched again. The forest is turning him barmy. "This is what he took from the world, just to stay alive… She would've been so much more."

 

"The unicorn?" It feels like he's talking about something other than a sparkly magic horse now, but it's cold and Draco can't be arsed to figure it out. Potter doesn't answer.

 

The embers are snuffed out. All that's left is ash and the reverence of what once was, and what might come.

 

Minutes pass and the unicorns disappear. The last rays of sunlight are fading fast and Potter still hasn't moved his pert arse. Draco clasps his hand—it's ice—and takes him away. They have to carry on.

 

* * *

 

When they find the cottage, Potter cocks his head like a crup and lets out a bemused sort of grunt. Draco thinks that's a bit rude for proper behavior befitting a _savior_ , but he must admit, the house is rather…tasteless. Not literally tasteless, mind. It _looks_ delectable. But as far as aesthetics go, it's tasteless.

 

Gingerbread walls, the cracks and pores sealed by a thin glaze, with thick icing seeping out of the joined corners. Quaffle-sized gumdrops and hard candies line the edges of the roof, perfectly spaced in channels of frozen custard. The glossy syrup windows promise a sweet surprise for anyone who licks the glass, and Draco’s tongue longs for a taste. Peppermint candy-cane pillars on the front porch hold up a stretched-taffy awning, where sugar crystals hang as a delicious mockery of the icicles that nearly claimed Draco's head hours ago. The front door of the cottage, the pièce de résistance: a colossal hunk of dark chocolate peppermint bark.

 

Smoke pipes up out of the gingerbread chimney, spicing the frigid air with temptation. Draco's mouth is already watering when he marches forth, intent on indulging in every bit of the ridiculous cottage.

 

"You can't just _eat_ someone's _house_ , you nutter!" Potter cries, smacking his hand off the lump of peppermint that serves as a doorknob.

 

"Why not?" Barred from the knob, Draco reaches overhead for the sugar crystals on the awning. With his few extra inches, he's safe from Potter's— _"Ouch!"_ he hisses, clasping a hand to his smarting bicep. "You pinched me!"

 

"I saved you!" Potter whispers. Why is he whispering?

 

"Why are you whispering?"

 

"What kind of person lives in a gingerbread house in the woods, Draco?" he says pointedly, but Draco misses the point.

 

"A nice one?" he suggests. "One who recognizes the importance of maintaining steady blood sugar levels whilst traversing treacherous terrain!"

 

His voice has risen with each alliteration and they see a light flicker through the syrup-swirled windows. Potter hauls him off the front porch and they duck behind a peppermint pillar, which isn't nearly large enough to properly hide them. Potter has his arms around him and he smells as delicious as the gingerbread.

 

Well, near enough.

 

The slab of peppermint-pocked chocolate swings open with a whoosh and Draco's nose is assaulted with sugar and spice and everything nice. He claws his way out of Potter's brutish grasp.

 

"Hello!" he calls out in his sweetest, schmooziest voice.

 

A withered old crone stands in the doorway and he falters at the edge of the stoop. Her long nose is crooked, her willowy hair is snow white, and her skin has a distinct blue tinge to it. But, he reminds himself, he does not judge _people_ based on appearances. From the corner of his eye, he sees Potter smack his own forehead before stepping out from the meager cover of the pillar, standing resignedly at Draco's side.

 

"Hello, dumplings," the withered old crone says in a withered old voice. She eyes them eagerly—probably excited to have company for once—and licks her crinkled lips. "Why, you’re frozen solid! Won't you come in out of the cold?"

 

"Yes, thank you," Draco agrees readily, striding over and crossing the threshold without hesitation. Potter is wary, but he follows.

 

"Let's get you thawed, my dumplings," the woman says, hobbling ahead.

 

She ushers them into a quaint sitting room crammed with mismatched, obviously transfigured, mostly leather furniture interspersed with bits of antique ivory. The odd collection of furniture is perhaps more than is suited for someone living alone in a tiny cottage without regular visitors, but it lends the room a certain cosiness. Almost like they aren't alone. He half expects the squashy armchair in the corner to start talking. A massive iron cauldron boils away in a fireplace three times larger than the common room fire. It's clearly too large to accommodate a standard Floo network connection, but Draco isn't about to begrudge an old witch her privacy. A medley of spices fills the air and the warmth washes over Draco like a hot bath.

 

"Skin and bones," she crows in her fragile voice, pinching Potter's side and causing him to leap out of her reach with an undignified squawk. Serves him right for pinching Draco earlier. "Let's get you fattened up, yes…"

 

"Thank you," Draco says graciously, dropping into the squashy armchair with relish. He sits like a king on a throne while Potter putters around the perimeter of the room, a hand in his pocket, no doubt around the handle of his wand. Paranoid loon. "Sit," he whispers while the crone tends the cauldron.

 

"We need to leave," Potter mutters, bending over Draco's shoulder from behind the chair. His hot breath fills the shell of his ear and Draco has to fight to steady his heart. He focuses his attention on the arm of the chair. It’s quality leather, soft and well tended, but stained. Or was the hide stained before it was tanned? Actually, it looks like a design, worn away by years of wear…

 

"Did your Muggles neglect to teach you manners?" he asks out of the corner of his mouth, flashing a dazzling smile at the witch when she peeks up at them. She smiles back, revealing a shelf of rotted teeth. Draco shudders and Potter leans over his shoulder again.

 

"Draco, she's going to eat us."

 

The deadpan delivery, the hot breath tickling his ear, the outrageousness of finding a candy cottage in the middle of the Forbidden Forest after skiving class with Harry Potter—all of it builds up in Draco's chest and bubbles out of him in a cascading waterfall of snorts and giggles.

 

_"What?!"_

 

"She's. Going. To eat us."

 

"Potter, stop it—sit down."

 

Eyeing a nearby ivory chair with frank suspicion, Potter throws himself on his knees next to the armchair and Draco suddenly wonders if he can coerce him to get on his knees in _front_ of the chair—

 

"Draco," Potter says seriously, peering up at him with his huge green eyes. Gods but Draco wants him to look up at him like that with his mouth around his—"Don't be a cock about this, just listen. There's this story, see, and—" But Draco isn’t listening.

 

"Are you…" Draco peers over the top of Potter's head at the witch who is adding something to the cauldron—something that smells like cinnamon. "Are you _cooking_ in that cauldron?" he asks incredulously, forgetting his manners in a state of plain shock.

 

Potter whirls around to watch the witch in alarm. He probably thinks Draco spotted a burly arm or a hairy leg in the concoction, the stupid tit, but it's not quite as dramatic as cannibalism. It's simply…not done, cooking in a cauldron. Cooking _in_ the magic, just as one cooks in the spices.

 

Magic is _not_ for eating.

 

Suddenly the gingerbread cottage seems rather less tantalizing, and the witch sees his trepidation. She nods her head sadly, then keeps nodding as if she can't stop.

 

"Yes, you're like all the others, I can…" She sniffs grandly. "Ohhh, I can smell it now… I was hoping you'd grant me a chance to explain. So eager to judge these days, even when—" her voice stutters and her eyes fill with tears. Draco feels like an arse. The nodding bobbles, shifts into something else, and she shakes her head instead, as if to clear it. "It's a lost art, you know. Cooking magic."

 

"It's—not right," he says, striving for gentleness. "It's practically cannibalism, to _eat_ _magic_ …" He shudders. Potter jerks violently, still kneeling on the floor. He grasps the arm of Draco’s chair, inadvertently covering the faded design.

 

“My husband thought so, too,” she says grimly. “That’s his chair you’re sitting in.”

 

Draco wants to abandon the chair now, but that seems rude. She’s right. He owes her a chance to explain, even if cooking magic goes against everything he’s been taught since childhood about magic purity—about tainted, undead souls and madness. He’s been wrong before.

 

“Where’s your husband now?” Potter blurts out, like a git.

 

“Oh, he’s around,” is her cryptic reply. "Doesn't go far these days."

 

Draco shivers, but the soft leather of the armchair is comforting. It’s of supreme quality. He bats Potter’s hand off the stain, aiming for another peek at the strange design as the old crone goes on. Perhaps it’s a tradesman’s mark?

 

“My mother taught me the art,” she says, giving the cauldron another stir and whispering something under her breath. Steam billows out, filling the room with a mesmerizing scent. It sends Draco’s head spinning and he suddenly can’t remember why all the fuss… After all, House Elves combine cooking and magic all the time. What’s the harm of wizard magic? “She says it’s an act of love. Of devotion to the crafts. Witchery and cooking, that is.”

 

“That’s what potions are for,” Draco protests, not really hearing himself. It’s difficult to focus on the leather's strange mark. Potter sways a little on the floor.

 

“One must _know_ the ingredients, the magic. Just as one must know the soil in which the herbs grow. To cook and eat magic is to—why, it's to renew life when it would otherwise expire! To heal, not to drive mad.” Her voice doesn’t sound so weak anymore. Draco thinks it’s beautiful how the old crone seems to come alive when she speaks of her passion. Her art. “My mother taught me the delicate balance between…”

 

Between? Between what?

 

“Why, my sweets, you’re wasting away!” she cries out, sounding withered and old once more. Her voice cuts across Draco’s mind like a knife and he feels a stab of concern— _her_ concern! She ladles out two servings of a heavy broth. The slopping noise of the stew dropping into the bowls is hypnotic. He and Potter eagerly accept their portions. “Tuck in.”

 

They do.

 

Hours later, or perhaps only seconds, Potter’s voice slurs sleepily: “Mrs. We…Weasley cooks. Magic.”

 

Draco startles. “No…” Surely that’s not right. “Cooks _food_ with magic?” Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with the Weasley clan, they’ve been cannibalizing their own magic for generations—

 

“With her wand.”

 

“Oh, that’s _fiiine_ ,” Draco sighs, waving a dismissive hand. The air is thick. It’s difficult to draw a full breath. They’ll have to sleep here tonight. He'll use a marshmallow as a pillow. “Wands’re okay. They’re just a tool.”

 

“But you said—“

 

 _“There’s a reason no one brews a stew in a cauldron,”_ Draco recites.

 

“Wha’sa reason?”

 

“I’unno,” he admits with a shrug. He’s dimly aware of the crone topping off their bowls. More aware of her droning voice.

 

“Awful people who don’t understand the craft, fools piddling about,” she says. “They’ve given it a cursed reputation. I hope you won’t condemn _me_ for it.”

 

“Like a racist,” Potter croaks in apparent agreement as he slurps his stew directly from the bowl. Draco peeks over the arm of the chair and thinks he’d rather suck the stew right from Potter’s plump lips. The leather of the arm dips and the strange design grabs his eye again.

 

Oh. It’s a tattoo. Yes, some sort of rune that was popular centuries ago.

 

“Let’s get you settled, dumplings,” the old sorceress coos. Her withered hands are strong as she helps them up. On their way out, Potter strokes a lamp shade and giggles serenely.

 

“Nipple,” he says.

 

Draco peers closer as he passes and nods sagely. Yes. There’s a distinct nipple stretched out on the cream-colored lamp shade, like the red spot on Jupiter. How whimsical.

 

They’re led deeper into the cottage.

 

* * *

 

The moment the heavy iron door closes behind them, the air thins and his head clears. He can breathe again. He vaguely remembers promising the old crone to stay put all night, but now he can’t imagine why they agreed to let her lock the door. She was crowing on about privacy when she prepares their breakfast in the morning… It all made sense at the time, but now—

 

“We’re locked in,” Potter says. Draco thinks he heard a tremor in his voice.

 

It’s a red brick room, windowless and in stark contrast to the gingerbread walls and swirled-syrup windows of the rest of the cottage. Five paces by five paces, the sparseness makes the surrounding brick pattern dizzying. A few wall-mounted torches provide light. In the far corner rests a wire table with a huge spread of sweets and cakes, fresh and tempting after a salty dinner. In the center of the room is a single bed on an iron frame, sporting a flimsy blanket and no pillow. Charming accommodations. Better than the forest floor, at least.

 

Potter looks pale, woozy. Perhaps he’s still dozy from dinner. It was a marvelous dinner. Draco snatches his sleeve and hauls him over to the dinky table laden with dessert, thinking he might as well keep Potter awake a while longer so he doesn’t have to fall asleep alone in a strange place. Besides, he can't very well make Potter sleep on the floor in his current state; that would just be bad form. He props up Potter’s lanky frame in the corner, reaching for a platter of little cakes swimming in sticky strawberry syrup. Potter sways and Draco grabs a wrist to steady him. Skin touches skin and the room flushes with warmth.

 

Potter can warm any room.

 

Draco tugs at his collar, loosening his tie and undoing the top few buttons of his shirt. They can’t properly indulge if they’re not comfortable, he decides as he sheds his cloak. Potter watches him dazedly before following his lead. They sling their cloaks and outer robes over the bed and Draco’s breath catches. Potter looks positively edible with his tie loose, his glasses askew, and his hair even more mussed than usual.

 

“What?” Potter grunts, sounding more like himself.

 

“Cake?" Draco shoves a sponge-cake into Potter's face so that he has no choice but to open his mouth and accept it. Potter looks ready to slug him for that shit move but then he hums in delight, his eyes roll back in his head, and he seems to forget all his worries about the locked door.

 

"God…" Potter moans. "So good."

 

Pink juice dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, blazing a sweet trail down his chin. Draco's trousers tighten at the sight. He leans into Potter's space, tilts his mouth, wets his lips—and just barely manages to stop himself before he can stoop down to lick up the sticky mess.

 

"Try some," Potter says, offering him a new sponge-cake. Draco hesitates, warily meeting Potter's straightforward gaze as he inclines his neck to take a bite. His teeth sink into the sponge and strawberry syrup floods his mouth. Then he loses sight of Potter's steady stare as his own eyes roll back in pleasure.

 

" _Merlin_ …"

 

"I don't like to waste food," Potter says, picking over the wide array of dessert with glee. "You never know when you might go hungry."

 

Draco rears back, looking at him incredulously. "You most certainly do know when and where your next meal is…at least while you're at Hogwarts," he adds, thinking of how dismally famished the Golden Trio had looked in May after spending several months on the run.

 

"I'm not always at Hogwarts," Potter says easily, popping a shiny truffle into his mouth. Draco envies the truffle.

 

"Like now." Draco nods. "And that's why you're so scrawny, I suppose? You've made a habit of skiving class and getting spectacularly lost?"

 

"I've always been scrawny."

 

"I remember." Draco waits, but Potter avoids his gaze. He goes for another truffle, moaning sensually. Blood rushes south and Draco forces the conversation forward before he does something else. "Why is that?"

 

"Went hungry sometimes," Potter says lightly with a little shrug, as if he didn't care.

 

"Your…your Muggle family didn't have enough?" Draco should've guessed why all those Weasley jibes were hitting so close to home for Potter: the boy who dressed in rags at Madam Malkin's shop.

 

"No, they had plenty." He can detect a hint of bitterness to Potter's tone, but it's the clenching jaw that gives it away. Potter has a strong, stubborn jaw. It clenches beautifully.

 

"But you didn't…?" Draco's too distracted by Potter's lovely jaw to piece it together.

 

"Look, Malfoy, Muggles aren't all bad," Potter says suddenly, defensively, _coldly_ , and Draco blinks.

 

"I'm not my father, I don't—"

 

"It's just some of them aren't all that good."

 

"Your family?"

 

"Not all of them." Potter abandons the next truffle back on the tray and turns his attention to the ground. He scuffs his filthy trainers in the cracks between the bricks. "Dudley's alright, I reckon."

 

Draco wants to change the subject, but curiosity is eating him alive and—"They didn't feed you?"

 

Potter shrugs, squaring his shoulders and lifting his head but still not looking at him. "They're not fond of…of things that’re different. Freaky."

 

"You."

 

That jaw clenches again. Potter shrugs, looking painfully rigid. Like an out-of-body experience, Draco watches himself reach forward—his hand trembles before it brushes against Potter's jaw, scratching lightly against the scruff. The tension in the jaw eases. Potter swallows. Draco feels stupid as soon as he sees his pale pink hand on Potter's dark brown skin—he doesn't know what his body is trying to play at, throwing limbs on people’s faces like a twat—but then Potter clasps his own hand over Draco's and holds him there.

 

The room gets warmer.

 

Potter laughs at him, dropping his hand. Flushing, Draco bristles. The match is lit, the kindling catches. The familiar fire between them roars to life.

 

"I don't suppose you'd understand what that's like,” Potter sneers, his eyes bright.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“What with your mummy always sending you care packages full of sweets—"

 

"It doesn't make me elitist to have been fed properly my whole life, you stupid pigeon!"

 

Barking back and forth, their words teeter just on the edge of cutting. Potter, returning the favor, crams a truffle against Draco’s mouth to break him off mid-rant. His teeth sink into firm dark chocolate, a flood of cherry ganache cutting across the bittersweet shell. The combination sings in his mouth and he hums his pleasure. Potter twitches…and grins like an idiot.

 

Draco lights upon a block of fudge, and Potter, meeting his eyes, parts his lips as if _daring_ him. Draco obliges, pressing a lump of creamy fudge onto Potter’s tongue. His fingers wrap around that stubbled chin, easing his mouth closed. His thumb passes lightly over Potter’s bottom lip and his fingertips feel the nearly silent groan in Potter’s throat, and the room is _hot_.

 

He relinquishes his hold, stepping back.

 

“Bloody stifling in here,” he mumbles. Potter seems to agree because he’s already pulling off his jumper and unbuttoning the rest of his dress shirt, letting it hang open to reveal a plain white undershirt. It’s soaked in sweat and clings to him.

 

“Nipples,” Draco blurts. His cheeks are burning but he's unable to look away. Potter fails to choke back a laugh and it turns into a long, inelegant snort, and then they’re both giggling madly. Draco shucks his own jumper and goes a step further—he slings his dress shirt onto the bed. He feels triumphant until Potter—apparently the demented lovechild of a Blast-Ended Skrewt and a Poltergeist—reaches over and tweaks one of his nipples through his own sweaty undershirt. Draco yelps and dances out of Potter’s reach, but his grin betrays him.

 

“I’ve wanted to do that since we potted the Dirty Dirt in Herbology,” Potter admits, looking only half as ashamed as he should be. He strips off his own unbuttoned shirt, flinging it onto the bed.

 

“Degenerate!”

 

“Oi, you!” Potter cries out suddenly, looking over Draco’s shoulder. Draco swings around. The old crone is peering at them through a little tinted window-slat mounted in the iron door. “Open the door!” That slight tremor from before returns to Potter’s voice.

 

The witch says nothing, but she’s staring at them with an eagerness that's unsettling. Potter’s ready to storm over and blast the door off its hinges and Draco reaches out to steady him, catching his forearm before he can insult their host and land them outside all night in the dead of winter.

 

He'd rather be too hot than too cold.

 

“Could you at least transfigure a window?” Draco calls over, hoping to get back to the array of pudding. Potter’s forearm flexes beneath his fingers. The room is dry and suffocatingly hot.

 

The witch says nothing. She swings a little flap on the other side of the door, and the slat is closed.

 

“Fine,” he huffs, relinquishing Potter’s arm and stalking around the bed to what he thinks might be an exterior wall, or near enough to it. “I’ll do it myself.” He flicks his wand at the wall in a complicated pattern and draws a square in the bricks. His incantation is flawless, the wand movements clean and precise, but the magic doesn’t…go. His wand doesn’t summon the magic from within him, doesn’t propel it into the wall. It just…doesn’t.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Draco swallows heavily. A bead of sweat drips from his hair into his eye, stinging and blurring his vision. He blinks rapidly, staring down at his wand in mounting horror.

 

 _“Lumos,”_ he rasps.

 

No light.

 

_“Aguamenti.”_

 

No water.

 

_“Alohomora!”_

 

The door remains locked. Draco meets Potter’s gaze. The room seems to shimmer with magic, but they can’t grasp it.

 

 _“Alohomora!”_ Potter cries now, jabbing his wand at the door. Nothing. He stomps over and makes to grab the handle, but there’s nothing to grab. No handle. Just a heavy slab of iron with a few small ventilation holes where a handle once was. _“Alohomora! Alohomora!”_ Potter’s screaming now, his shoulders are pulled taut and he’s trembling. Draco can’t see his face as he pounds on the door but the sight of a plainly terrified Gryffindor is enough to irk anyone.

 

Manners and decorum fly out the non-existent window. He doesn’t care if they spend all night in the freezing cold, they have to get out. He has to get Potter out.

 

“Come back here, you old shrew!” Draco screeches. There's no response from the old woman. Potter's breath is coming far too rapidly, like a high-pitched wheeze, and Draco approaches him cautiously.

 

"Out. Get us _out,_ " Potter says through clenched teeth, glaring at the door with more determination than Draco has ever seen.

 

"Potter…?"

 

"LET US OUT!" Potter throws himself into the iron door, bouncing back only to throw himself again, and again, and again, and—

 

"Potter!" Draco throws his arms around him. Potter's sweat isn't as tantalizing as it was just moments ago; now it's slippery and making it hard to just hold _on_ —"That isn't helping! Stop it, you brute!"

 

"Fuck you, Malfoy! LET US OUT!" His voice cracks and he makes to hurl himself against the door again, bringing them both crashing forward and cracking Draco's head against the door jam.

 

He grunts and staggers, still holding onto Potter. They fall to the ground and he manages to bite his lip on the way down. Potter's lying stretched out on top of him, his heated back on Draco's chest, and they take a moment to catch their breath. It was a short battle but they're nearly spent. It's bloody _hot_.

 

"This…" he gasps out, struggling to breathe with Potter's weight crushing him. "…this is not how I'd hoped you'd end up on top of me. But it'll do."

 

Potter huffs, not sounding very amused but not moving to pummel the indestructible door again. Thank fuck for small mercies.

 

Potter's still staring at the ceiling (Draco assumes, as he can only see the back of that bird's nest) when he says, "We're locked in."

 

"We knew that."

 

"No magic."

 

"Yes, that one's more perplexing," Draco admits, considering the situation.

 

"Was it the stew? Did she lace it with something?"

 

"Magic suppressants taste vile, I think we'd recognize it."

 

"Unless she's got her own recipe," Potter says bitterly.

 

"Yes, unless…" He heaves the useless git off his chest and they sit across from each other between the door and the bed, legs splayed, shirts soaked, trousers dampening dangerously fast—and not in a sexy way, unfortunately. _“There’s a reason no one brews a stew in a cauldron,”_ he recites. It's an old saying from some childhood book, or perhaps a song…

 

"Because it fucks your magic?" Potter's trying miserably to clean his glasses on his sweaty shirt, but it's only making a smeary mess. His hands are already bruising from his assault on the door.

 

"I don't remember. Something about madness, I think, or—or the soul, or something…" he trails off, distracted by the tracks on Potter's cheeks. Surely that's only sweat…? "Are you alright?" he asks carefully.

 

"We're locked in!" he snaps, throwing his glasses at the door. They _tink!_ pathetically against the iron and fall to the floor. Potter draws his knees up to his chest and hides his face, folding his arms over his head.

 

"Too bloody hot for this," Draco whispers. He remembers all too clearly the time Potter and his friends were…guests…at Malfoy Manor, and decides it's wise to skip the why of what's happening in Scarhead's head right now. "Ease up, Potter. We're locked in, yes, but there's food, so she's not the worst warden. For all we know, she really does just want her privacy for the night. She's working on breakfast."

 

"She's going to eat us," Potter says flatly, his voice muffled by his knees. Draco tries to mask his flare of annoyance. The twit's clearly going through some sort of…thing.

 

"Why do you keep harping on about that?" he says shortly. "Because of the man-sized cauldron? I'll admit, it's rather sizeable, but that's no reason—"

 

"She's from the story, Draco, the—Hansel and Gretel, that one!" Potter's face is still hidden but his hands are flapping around, as if gesturing to some obvious answer that Draco can't see. "With the breadcrumbs?"

 

He looks down at himself. "It's not like we're equipped with the proper utensils, but I don't think I missed too much of that sponge-cake…"

 

Potter's head snaps up. His eyes are blazing but unfocused. A perfect metaphor for the Golden Boy, in Draco's opinion.

 

"From the story! Hansel and Gretel are lost in the woods and they happen upon a gingerbread house!" He gestures madly around the tiny room and Draco decides not to remind him that this room, at least, is not edible. "There's this old witch—is she a witch? Whatever she is, she feeds Hansel, and keeps feeding him more and more to fatten him up, remember?"

 

"I don't remember any such story."

 

"No, I mean—remember when she was feeding us?! She said she wants to fatten us up!"

 

"She said she wants to fatten _you_ up," he corrects, preening slightly. "I keep myself in fighting form, you see." Not that there is any discernible difference in their physiques, but Draco thinks he can argue a bit more health to his frame than Potter. And some inches. And tamable hair. Pity about the shoulders, though, Potter has a splendidly broad set shoulders that complements his rugged jawline, and even the glasses aren't—

 

"She tries to put Hansel in an oven. To cook him."

 

Draco loses his train of thought—shame, that—and stares blankly at the nutter with whom he's apparently negotiating a bed tonight.

 

"To eat him," he ventures a guess.

 

"Yeah." Potter's very somber now, somber and grim and not at all joking. But mad people are rarely convinced of their madness.

 

"Right. And you're suggesting…" He looks around at their little room. "You're suggesting that this is our oven?" Potter swallows. Draco tracks the movement of his throat. A bead of sweat trickles around his Adam's apple, collecting in a little pool under his t-shirt collar, and he wants to lick it off those sharp collarbones.

 

"Could be," Potter whispers, eyes wide and unseeing, the stupid blind git.

 

"This isn't an oven, Potter," he states firmly. "Have you ever seen an oven as large as this?"

 

"Have you ever seen such a big fuck off fireplace? Or cauldron?"

 

"Fair enough."

 

"It's the only room not made of gingerbread."

 

"The only room we've _seen_. I daresay the lavatory isn't decked out in edibles." He shivers despite the heat, then wonders whether he should pound on the door to request a trip to the loo. Then he could get Potter out of here. He isn't looking so fresh.

 

"Brick oven," he insists. "Like a giant brick oven. Iron door, iron furnishings—what sort of guest room doesn't have a doorknob?"

 

"All the food would burn up."

 

"That's to fatten us up!" he cries, slinging out an arm to indicate the picked over desserts. "She said to stay in here while she prepares breakfast! _We're breakfast!"_

 

He opens his mouth to protest, but hesitates, considering…

 

"Let's entertain the idea that you're right," he says slowly, eyes scanning the room with renewed interest. The red bricks match those that make up the fireplace in the sitting room, and isn't that a chilling observation. "And I'm not saying you are, but…what happens next?"

 

"It's hot."

 

"Yes, but not enough to—to _cook_ us." The idea is preposterous, he can't believe he's even considering it, but…there are stories warning children against cooking in cauldrons. Nothing good comes from consuming magic. It isn't a spice, it's not meant to be consumed. Even dark wizards don't dare to eat their magic, the practice is…evil.

 

"Near enough. And if it's an oven, it'll get hotter."

 

"Yes, but how?"

 

"It's already happening."

 

Potter's oddly calm now that Draco's entertaining his madness. Draco wonders if this is what he was like when he met the Dark Lord in the forest. It's not a good look, but if anyone can pull it off, it'd be Potter. Speaking of pulling off…

 

"Well, I can't think in soggy trousers," he declares. He throws off his shoes and trousers before he can lose his nerve and climbs to his socked feet. The room tilts and he crashes to the floor again, banging his knees. He swears loudly and Potter crawls over.

 

"You're bleeding!" he says in dismay, hands hovering over his head in uncertainty. Draco touches a finger gingerly to his forehead. It comes away wet and sticky—like the rest of him—but also red. Blood.

 

"This is your doing." He's going to have a scar on his forehead like Potty now, curse it all.

 

"Me?!"

 

"Yes, you and your hysterics!" Draco waves in the direction of the door, where he smashed his head moments ago.

 

Potter rolls his de-spectacled eyes and moves to his feet, heaving Draco up by his armpits. Draco shuffles his feet and they stumble over to the bed, where Potter drops him unceremoniously atop their clothes.

 

 _"Oof!_ …thanks."

 

But Potter's not paying attention, the wanker. He's still standing, still staring with unfocused eyes at the locked door. Still clenching his perfect jaw, the picture of barely-contained panic.

 

"Come here."

 

"What?"

 

"Here, you twat," he snaps, pointing at the spot on the mattress next to him. "Sit."

 

"We're locked in," Potter says again.

 

"Do you find you do your best problem solving in a blind panic?"

 

"She's going to cook us," his voice raises slightly. He’ll lose it and start assaulting the door any second now unless Draco does something to put out the fire.

 

"Take off your trousers."

 

There, that shuts him up. Draco obstinately ignores the trickle of blood or sweat that runs down the side of his face in favor of smirking triumphantly up at Potter.

 

"Right. Soggy." Potter firms his jaw again and ducks his gaze to fumble with his fly. The trousers hit the floor and Draco tries, he really does, but he just can't _not_ look at his pants… His slightly loose, bright red pants with little gold snitches fluttering around the band.

 

"Ridiculous," he scoffs, because _saucy meat pocket_ isn't appropriate over dessert. Potter's avoiding his eyes, but he darts a glance at Draco's pants too. His fitted, plain white pants with Twilfitt  & Tattings embroidered on the band. Draco feels his ears turn pink but he bravely buries the urge to cross his legs. He will not let Potter recognize his embarrassment, no matter how much he thinks his own blush might boil him before the oven can.

 

Potter makes a big show of stepping out of the trousers pooled around his feet, then he toes off his shoes and socks clumsily, nearly falling over.

 

"Merlin's sack, sit _down_ ," he commands, yanking Potter over by the hem of his shirt. Potter drops down next to him on the odd little mattress.

 

"Springs," he says. Draco stares at him. "Mattress springs," he goes on. "The metal kind. Coils."

 

"Yes, I _know_ what a spring is. Who puts springs in a mattress?"

 

"Muggles."

 

"Muggles don't have access to feathers? Or straw?"

 

"They do. Springs are cheaper. Cleaner. Last longer." Potter's not quite back to sounding dazed, and he's not quite panicking, but the conversation has taken a weird turn. They're sitting on a tiny bed, locked in a possible oven, trouserless. And Potter's talking about mattress quality.

 

"So?”

 

"Metal coils will conduct heat better than—"

 

"Oh stop it!" Draco cries in exasperation. "We're _not_ in an oven!"

 

Potter shuts his gob and the room is eerily silent. Those lips, still glossy with syrup, are pressed firmly together and his face looks oddly naked without his glasses. The little indentations on his nose make him look softer. Sleepier. Draco wonders if he can get him to sleep at all tonight or if even the mattress is too much for him now. He regrets snapping at him. Whether the danger is real or imagined, the terror certainly is.

 

"You've chocolate on your lip," he says gently. Potter darts a tongue out, but misses. "Here…" He reaches out and grips Potter's jaw, brushing his thumb firmly over his bottom lip, as he did earlier. The bit of chocolate smears. He leans forward. Potter's eyes flick down.

 

"Blood," he murmurs. "On your lip…" His mouth parts ever so slightly, that perfect jaw shifting under his grasp. Draco closes the distance, sinking his lips into Potter's.

 

He tastes chocolate and salt and the remnants of strawberry syrup, and a fresh wave of heat tears through the room. Perhaps Potter's right—perhaps the old crone is trying to cook them—or perhaps it's just Draco's libido. Well, there's one way to fix that.

 

Potter lets slip a moan and the vibrations enter Draco through his lips, through his fingers. His cock twitches with interest and frankly, he can't think of anything more interesting than snogging Potter's brains out until he forgets about the damn door. He pulls Potter's stupid face closer, cramming those sweet lips against his own. Potter moans again and the feel of it courses through Draco like fire.

 

It's _hot_.

 

Fingers curl into his hair and he spares a moment to wonder if it's sweat or blood that's smearing around up there by his temple. It’s simply vile. Or hot. Definitely hot, in one way or another. Draco pulls back with a grunt and attacks that jaw, kissing and licking and tasting the hard line all the way back. He finds an innocent bit of skin just behind his ear that feels forbidden. Impossibly intimate. Potter gasps, the sound is raspy and unrefined; Draco pushes his nose deeper into the dark hair and sucks harder on the sweet, soft skin.

 

Slipping and sliding, needing more contact, he clambers onto Potter's bare lap, much to his own surprise. Their legs move against each other sinfully, hair scratching against hair with little resistance. They're dripping in sweat.

 

"Please—" Potter groans lowly.

 

"Shut up."

 

Potter bucks and their cocks touch for a fleeting moment, separated only by a thin layer of rapidly dampening fabric. Heat surges through him, through the room. He works his way down Potter's neck, pushing up the sopping shirt to run his hands over miles of bare skin. He can't taste what's sweat, what's spit. Potter bucks again. Merlin, he hopes it's precome that's soggying his pants.

 

He pushes his shins down into the bed to gain leverage, pushing against Potter's firm chest until he gives. Potter lies back and Draco tips forward, and then they're in an all new position. A brilliant position—all Draco's doing, really—that allows him to pick up the pace.

 

He presses down against the tent in Potter's pants, drawing simultaneous moans from both of them. He can't quite convince himself that the heat in the room is a bad thing anymore when the best of the heat is _down there._ Potter's hands come up, fumbling with his undershirt, running over his slick back. Draco's tongue follows a crease across his chest, just under his pecs, then down. He shifts back to taste more. Potter's hands drift into his hair again, no doubt smearing the mess of blood and sweat into a bird's nest to rival his own, the spiteful git. Draco closes the distance—his tongue drags across that sweaty, salty brown skin—his chin scratches against a promising trail of hair, the lean line of muscles under his tongue jumping, twitching, fluttering as he moves down, down, down…

 

"Keep— _unng…!_ " Potter arches his back encouragingly when Draco's teeth taunt his waistband. "F-fuck!" he gasps, peeking down. Draco plucks the waistband again. It slips out from between his teeth and bottom lip to snap against the v-shape over Potter's groin. His eyes are blazing for all the right reasons now, his shirt is scrunched up in his armpits and his chest is heaving. The locked door might as well be miles away.

 

Curiously—he’s never done anything like this before—Draco leans in. His Adam's apple meets Potter's growing cock through his pants and he presses down, hard. It's the stiffest thing Draco's ever felt against his throat and he yearns to _do_ something with it. Potter rewards him with a very manly whimper and tugs Draco's hair. Draco moans, his throat still pressing down against that hot, hard cock, just on the verge of choking himself.

 

A thigh comes up between his legs and brushes Draco through his pants and he nearly comes undone. Frantically, he tears his throat away from Potter's cock and moves up again, straddling his hips properly, rocking with intent. _Oh_ , that’s nice. Draco whines, then inhales sharply. He can barely feel the heat of the oven—the room—as he concentrates on building a rhythm. Potter’s panting and groaning is animalistic, filthy, degrading, and the sexiest thing Draco’s ever heard.

 

A horrible twist is building up in his thigh and he tries to ignore it in favor of the brilliance going on between them, but it claws and coils and forces its way through his bliss. He hurls himself forward onto Potter’s chest, winding the oaf, as he stretches his leg out behind him.

 

“Ah! Ah ah ah!” he crows pitifully as he claws at his leg.

 

“What is it?!” Potter yelps, all his panic returning at once. Shit.

 

“Cramp! Cramp!” is all he can manage right now. Potter shifts under him, grunts as if in pain, and then his shifting becomes more urgent. Draco’s cock is enjoying the activity despite the pain in his leg, but Potter clearly isn’t.

 

“Get—ah! Get off!” he pleads, his voice cracking. Draco frowns down at him, not budging an inch.

 

“Just forget about the fucking door, Potter—”

 

“Draco—now—please, get _off!”_

 

Draco comes back to his senses and he launches himself back off the bed, off Potter. He's overwhelmed with disgust for himself, for taking advantage of Potter's bizarre claustrophobia for the sake of getting off.

 

“Sorry! I’m sorry,” he stammers. Potter leaps off the bed, his shoulders hunched up next to his ears and his shirt still stuck up into his armpits. Draco is still rock hard and even though Potter is too, he can’t think of anything more humiliating than standing here right now.

 

And then Potter whirls around to look at the bed, and Draco nearly faints.

 

“SHIT!” he screams. “Y-your back!”

 

Potter whips around again to look at him, hopping from foot to foot. Draco looks down and nearly throws up. Potter’s bare feet are searing right before their eyes. All at once, Draco can feel the heat through his socks.

 

“Shit!”

 

Potter’s back is burned to hell, large matching rings of angry, peeling, bubbling skin spaced evenly across it. The smell of burning skin and hair hits Draco like a train and he feels woozy again. Vince’s screams are ringing in his ears. The room tilts. Potter grabs his elbow, his hand sliding in the slick of Draco’s sweat in a decidedly less sexy way than just moments before, and drags him close. Potter frantically gathers their cloaks and the single thin sheet from the bed, throwing it into a haphazard pile on the floor. They stumble together onto the pile, huddling close, Potter’s arms holding Draco’s back tight against his chest. It’s a welcome reprieve from the heat of the brick floor, but now Draco’s all too aware of the rising temperature.

 

“It’s an oven,” he croaks.

 

“Mhm,” must be Potter’s way of saying _I told you so._

 

“Your back…” The smell is nauseating.

 

“Mm.” He’s in pain. That’s a pained sound, Draco’s sure of it. Of course he’s in pain, he’s been half-broiled on a giant shitting oven-rack!

 

“It’s hot,” he adds usefully. Fuck, but it’s hard to think. The heat is everywhere, pressing in on them from all sides. The air is heavy, hard to breathe. There’s an awful tingling sensation in his legs and he chances a glance down. His knees and shins are blistering before his eyes in angry red circles that match the ones on Potter’s back. _“Shit.”_ It figures that he’d come so close to sex—with _Potter_ , no less—and end up in this state.

 

“I think—” Potter hesitates, then releases his hold on Draco. He leans back slightly, unsticking his chest from the back of Draco’s shirt. His hands hover anxiously to either side of Draco. “I think it gets hotter each time we touch.”

 

“Now’s not the time for your ego,” Draco hisses, still staring at his mangled shins. The threat of the cramp lingers in his thigh, as if biding its time. He’s thoroughly miserable and not in the mood for Potter’s clumsy innuendos.

 

“The oven, you idiot!”

 

Draco wants to lash out, but the last time he dismissed Potter’s theory, it turned out to be true and now they’re being cooked alive. He takes a deep, purposeful breath. It doesn’t do much good except to pull more heat into his lungs.

 

“Skin to skin or…?” He can’t even think how to finish the question. He’s so tired. If the bed weren’t made of evil metal coils, he would lie down and drift off with hardly a fuss.

 

He nearly leaps off the mound of rapidly-warming fabric when Potter pokes his back with a firm finger through his shirt. There’s no discernable difference in the room’s temperature, but perhaps it just can’t get any hotter. The air is already shimmering. Potter removes his finger and Draco sees his hand come around to his arm. He hesitates, trembling, then places his finger on Draco’s bare arm.

 

There’s a rush of heat far greater than anything he has experienced before, and it is not sexy.

 

“Oh…” he gasps, swaying. Potter grabs hold of his shoulders to steady him, his hands resting safely on top of his shirt. But the room is still _hot_.

 

Potter’s saying something now. One hand has moved from his shoulder. Draco peeks around. He’s reaching out from the little island of clothes, stretching unsteadily across the bricks toward his own trousers that he left on the floor. He just barely manages to snag a leg of fabric without toppling over and Draco automatically reaches out to steady him.

 

The thrice-damned room gets hotter.

 

“Don’t touch me!” Potter’s screech sounds muffled to Draco’s ears. It’s like the heat is so thick, it’s blocking sound now. He knows that’s not right, but he feels perfectly content to blame it anyway. Potter’s still yammering. “…worse! Move closer to the bed…can just get a spring, I might…”

 

With an awkward shuffling, they inch closer to the bed, dragging their island of clothes with them. Draco can feel the hot bricks through the fabric, through his socks. Carefully, ever so carefully, he leans over, blinking away the blackness that creeps into his vision, and reaches for his abandoned shoes. It’s a painstakingly slow process, but then his shoes are on again and there’s a nice thick buffer between his feet and the floor. Hunched over, Potter doesn’t even seem to notice his own singed feet—he’s too busy gutting the demon mattress, using his trousers as a protective glove—and Draco reaches out again to collect his shoes as well. A little voice in his head tells him he's quite the gentleman for it.

 

Potter rights himself too quickly and Draco just glimpses his hand raised up triumphantly before he staggers into him and they both tumble to the ground. Potter's on top, which means it's Draco's back they're smelling.

 

"UP!" he yelps, flailing against the dead weight on top of him. Like a spatula pressing on a sausage, Potter is pushing him into the searing hot bricks. Draco's sweat-slicked back spits, sizzles, and steams in the worst, most grisly, disgusting, offensive, grotesque—"UP, POTTER! _UP! UP!"_ His voice cracks, _shatters_ , and Potter scampers off him, managing to crash an elbow into his boys and that is really just the cherry on top of this fried sundae.

 

His shirt has ridden up slightly and he has to peel his bare lower back and thighs off the brick before he can crawl to their island of safety. His palms are burned, much like Potter's feet, and he suspects there's a distinct brick-pattern seared into his skin if Potter's wide, staring eyes are any indication.

 

"H-hot," Draco chokes out, swallowing back tears. Nothing like being grilled alive to knock around one's sense of pride.

 

"I have it!" Potter shouts into his face, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder while brandishing a long thin metal wire. "We need to get to the door!"

 

He no longer sounds muffled; everything's much too loud now. Senses fried and overwrought, Draco shoves him back on instinct and then watches in horror as Potter goes careening off their island. He crashes into the metal bed and Draco's expecting a howl of pain, but Potter just leaps back up, gasping, and returns to their island.

 

"Come on!" he says, as if Draco didn't just nearly murder him. On a griddle-bed. In a giant oven.

 

He really should know better than to skive classes with Harry Potter.

 

Even if Potter's busy being a hero, Draco has the sense to force him to put his damn shoes on. He'll have to wax poetic about the state of those trainers later, because as soon as they're on, they're stuffing their hot wands in their pants—he wishes that were a euphemism—and shuffling toward the door. They keep the clothes on the floor as an added buffer—Potter mumbles something about melted rubber soles and Draco adds it as a point against his egregious choice in footwear—and pass over a sea of hot red bricks. Draco tries not to think about the fact that what he's smelling is _them_.

 

"I'll never eat meat again," he says as Potter winds his trousers around his blistered hands and grips the metal wire. He crouches low so that the ventilation holes, the ones where a door handle should have been, are at eye-level. He inserts the metal wire and begins a long, arduous process that Draco can't even begin to understand. "Potter…?"

 

He says nothing.

 

"Potter."

 

No reply.

 

"Potter!"

 

"WHAT?" he snarls, not looking away from his weird little project.

 

"Care to fill me in on our escape plan?"

 

Apparently not. Potter says nothing as he draws the wire out and bends it in half. He bends one end into a little crook, tamping it down with his teeth before shoving the device back into the little shaft. Draco watches his back as he works. Even through his shirt, Draco can see the angry, raw wounds bubbling up on his once immaculate skin.

 

"Doesn't that hurt?"

 

"Shh!"

 

 _"Shhh!"_ he mocks. Draco rolls his eyes and looks up—cold blue eyes meet his through the slat in the door. "Potter!" he whispers urgently.

 

"Draco, I have to listen for the—"

 

 _"Potter!"_ he hisses.

 

"Draco, I swear to—"

 

"She's here!"

 

"What?" Potter jolts, but remains crouched next to the door. The old crone examines the room eagerly but she must not be able to see much through the slat, for her eyes return to his after just a moment. Draco is rooted to the spot.

 

"Stay low…" he murmurs, trying not to move his lips. He's not sure how much she can hear through the door, through the ventilation holes. "Keep working." _Whatever you're doing, just get this fucking door open,_ he thinks desperately. He holds the old woman's gaze challengingly. Well, he holds it, at least. He's not sure how much fight he has left in him but he can stare an old tart down if it means she doesn't spot Potter.

 

The room is silent. Draco can hear his own shallow breathing, Potter's raspy huffs. He can hear the crackling of the wall-mounted torches around them. Potter twists his wrist, shifts his arm, angles his shoulders—there's a distinct click. Draco twitches, but the woman doesn't. She hasn't heard the door unlock.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco can see Potter glance over at him, but he doesn't look down.

 

"What now?" he says lowly out of the corner of his mouth.

 

Potter takes a breath. Until now, sweat has been pouring out of his hair, down his neck, off his nose, over his trembling hands…but no longer. He's soaked to the bone, grey and panting, but he appears all sweated out as he squats and considers the next step. They can't afford to stay here much longer, waiting the old woman out while they get nice and crispy. And she might never leave the window! They have to act. Potter squares his shoulders, looking as if it takes all his strength to do so.

 

"I'll open it, you grab her," he says.

 

"She's stronger than she looks," he whispers, recalling her surprising strength when she hauled them to their feet after dinner.

 

"If I stay low, you can use me to trip her up."

 

"Right. Brute force."

 

"Got a better idea, Malfoy?" Potter growls. His leg quakes more and more the longer he remains crouched.

 

"Well, do it then!"

 

Draco inches off their safe little island while Potter subtly adjusts his angle. He can smell the rubber of Potter's soles melting into the floor as he huddles as close as he can get to the hot iron door. It's now or never.

 

Potter fists his scorched fingers through the trousers and throws his weight against the door. For a heart-stopping moment, Draco thinks the click meant nothing, it was just another trick up the old witch's sleeve! But then Potter grunts, shifts, his arse perks up a little as he engages his thighs, and the heavy door swings out.

 

The witch bobs out of view of the window-slat and hurries to the side to avoid being scalded. Draco's hands dart out and his blistered fingers grasp the many folds of her robes. He wrenches back with all his might. Potter's crouched on all fours, just where he said he'd be, and the witch cries out as she stumbles over his back toward Draco. He side-steps and uses her falling momentum to send her flying onto the bed.

 

She screams.

 

Potter grabs the waistband of his pants, nearly ripping them off, and together they tear out of the room into the sweet, cool corridor. From the ground, Potter throws his feet against the door. His trainers sizzle and bubble, the rubber soles burn and fill Draco's nose with a smell as nauseating as their own smoked flesh. A shadow from within the room moves—flies forward with incredible speed—and the door shuts just as the witch throws herself against it.

 

She screams again.

 

Potter holds firm while she claws at the door. She's _howling_.

 

With the oven sealed, the fire burning inside him turns to smoldering embers. Draco looks between Potter and the door in horror. His face is clouded over with something powerful and righteous and chilling. The screams are turning hoarse. There's frantic movement within the chamber. Draco dares to look through the little slat and sees the old crone dithering about madly. She picks up the wire table with the desserts, attempts to wield it at the door, only to screech in pain and drop it with a loud clanging.

 

"Harry…" His whisper shouldn't be heard over the old crone's screams, but it is. Green eyes meet grey. He shivers in the cold corridor, in his sweat-soaked undershirt with his wand sticking stupidly out of his pants, but he holds his ground against those eyes. Something changes in Potter's expression—a deep misery, an untouchable anguish Draco can't even begin to understand—and, with great effort, Potter peels his half-melted sneakers from the door.

 

Instinctively, Draco knows they have their magic now that they're outside the confines of the oven. He whips out his wand—the tip brushes his now flaccid cock, as if mocking his efforts to distract Potter earlier—and pulls the door open with a wordless incantation. The screams morph into a desperate crowing that's somehow worse and then the old woman is flinging herself out of the chamber, tripping over Potter again and crashing full-force into the far wall of the gingerbread corridor. Her head breaks through and she scrabbles comically to free herself, but can't. Draco huffs a laugh, but doesn't really feel it.

 

From the ground, Potter pulls his own wand out his pants and, without looking, shoots an _incarcerous_ over his head at the woman.

 

Draco offers a hand, helping Potter to his feet.

 

* * *

 

Potter is not shocked enough by the Muggle car that finds them in the depths of the Forbidden Forest. Surprised, certainly, but more relieved than outright shocked. Draco means to interrogate him, but then Potter drops this line:

 

"Our chariot awaits, my prince."

 

The git catches himself mid-bow and suddenly looks like he'd gladly walk back into the oven. Draco lets him stew in his mortification and climbs into the rusted contraption first. He's not shocked enough when Potter doesn't climb into the driver's seat; _of_ _course_ the car is sentient, and _of course_ Potter is on good terms with it.

 

He shivers and makes to cast a warming charm, but Potter grabs his hand to stop him. Right. They've had enough warming charms to last them a lifetime. He eases back against the torn leather of the backseat, willing himself to stop shivering like a berk. He concentrates on all the layers of clothes keeping him warm. A gentle, non-threatening warmth. Potter hasn't let go of his hand.  


 

They ride together to the edge of the forest in quiet reverence…until Potter starts babbling about breadcrumbs, Draco chides him for wanting more food at a time like this, and the kindling catches once more.

 

* * *

 

Nobody believes them, of course. Pansy is in perfect agreement with Granger's theory that they simply poisoned themselves with hallucinogenic berries near the acromantula nest. When he and Potter present the ruined sneakers as proof, Granger counters with something clever about natural heat pockets. Potter nearly peals the shirt off his back to prove them wrong, but Draco stops him before he can back them into a story they're not ready to tell… _However did you get burns on your back, Potter? And on your shins, Draco? However did the two of you end up in such a peculiar position?_ He has no doubt that Pansy could come up with a whole new theory without Granger's help.

 

Potter's status yields just two Ministry-grunts to check out the forest, and the pair finds nothing to corroborate their story. No gingerbread house. No cannibalistic crone. No leather and ivory furniture, no lamps pocked with nipples, no giant cauldron. No oven. No metal spring mattress.

 

Potter swears off sweets forever, which does the most in convincing his friends that _something_ happened.

 

"Go on then, open it!" Longbottom rallies when the post is delivered. Potter seems to recognize the Malfoy eagle owl standing in his waffles and Draco winks at his questioning glance.

 

He opens it.

 

His eyes light up and a grin steals over his face, stretching those syrup-sticky lips and scrunching his nose. Their gazes meet again and Draco quirks a brow. _Well?_

 

Weasel darts a hand into the box of chocolates that Mum prepared, but Potter fends him off valiantly. He pops a truffle into his perfect mouth, sucking on it whole and glaring over at Draco as if in challenge. The Gryffindor table descends into roaring chaos:

 

"I knew it!"

 

"You're full of it, Haz!"

 

"First sign of temptation and he caves!"

 

From across the Great Hall, Potter smirks at Draco, smearing a stray bit of chocolate over his lip.

 

* * *

 

_And they lived happily ever after. Well, near enough._

 

_The End_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/148551.html).


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